


Fictitious Mind

by TsukiDragneel



Category: Kagerou Project, Mekakucity Actors
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Attempted Murder, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Everyone is Dead, F/M, Post-Zombie Apocalypse, Swearing, Zombie Apocalypse, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 10:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18008810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TsukiDragneel/pseuds/TsukiDragneel
Summary: shintaro stares out into a world of blood and death and tries to lose himself in the pools of hot crimson(bad summary is bad)





	Fictitious Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yellowpaws8](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Yellowpaws8).



It only figures that he’d still be around once the world went to shit.

No matter  _ how damn much  _ he just wants to  _ die _ people  _ keep fucking protecting him _ . And why?  _ Why do people keep protecting this useless body of his? _

He manages to dart into an alley before some of them spot him. Momo used to call them walkers, way back when the creatures were as real as anything else on TV. Kano, like the horror freak he was, called them the undead. Ene, zombies. Ayano… dammit, he doesn’t know what she woulda called them. 

Maybe it’s better that she’s dead. 

Anyways, he prefers to call the things simply ‘them’. Is it denial? Hell yes. But it’s pretty damn hard to pass the first fucking stage of grief when people  _ keep dying _ .

Momo was first.

Momo’s always first.

They were at one of her concerts when the infection started. Because  _ god fucking forbid  _ the end of the world happen when they were at  _ all  _ in a decent venue.

She was in the middle of her new songs when the lights shut out.

A few seconds later, her fans swarmed the stage, and at the time all he can remember is thinking ‘run’.

Momo didn’t know what was happening. She couldn’t tell that the end of the world was starting in the middle of her fucking concert, and tried to talk to them. Of course she did. His younger sister was never one to settle things with fists. 

_ “Momo!”  _ he screamed, reaching for her.

He’s never fast enough. 

One of them grabbed her ankle, another her skirt. And  _ dammit _ , he still can’t think about it. The way her eyes widened in realization, how her mouth opened in a wide ‘o’, calling for her older brother in the vain hopes he could do something…  _ fuck _ .

_ “Shintaro!” _

He can’t do a damn thing.

He mutters a swear under his breath, tightening his grip on his messenger bag. They found him, because of  _ fucking course _ they can’t give him a damn minute to reminisce. Why would they? Human courtesy isn’t something they’re familiar with. 

Then again, it’d be too easy if it was.

He manages to duck under some rotting boards and hides behind one of the shelves in an old supermarket. Or at least he  _ thinks  _ it’s a supermarket. Damn looters. Screwing him over even after the apocalypse.

Well, there is a sort of cause and effect there. 

All the same, he manages to catch his breath, pulling off his bag and throwing it to the side. This supply run turned into a total bust.

Still, he is in a supermarket, no matter how dark, decrepit, moldy and foreboding it may be. Can’t hurt to check.

Correction: it can, and  _ does  _ hurt to check. What he means is that it’ll only postpone the inevitable. And if he finds one of them? That works too.

He knows just how much checking can hurt. Seen it firsthand.

_ “They’re not even dead in the first place.” _

The familiar voice hits him like a punch to the gut, because he’s  _ been somewhere just like this  _ before. Only that time, he wasn’t alone.

(Bold of you to assume you’re alone, Shintaro. Have some fucking wariness. They love darkness, you moron)

_ “Why do you call them undead if they aren’t dead?” _

Kido’s voice rings through his ears clear as day, and for a second, he honestly believes that if he just turns the corner, they’ll be there. They’ll all be there.

_ “Because it sounds cool!”  _ Kano protested, and  _ there’s  _ the clatter of the can hitting the floor when his backpack hits the shelving unit.  _ “Fuck!” _

_ “Be more wary,”  _ Kido scolded, and he can almost hear her smacking him on the head.  _ “You never know where they might be.” _

_ “I’m gonna go check over here,”  _ Kano replied, waving his flashlight around like a lunatic.  _ “See you soon!” _

A pause, and then a scream.

_ “Kano, don’t!” _

The sickening sound of flesh tearing from bone fills his ears, and he presses his hands to his temples to  _ shut it out make it stop  _ because he  _ can’t fucking handle this _ . The  _ guilt _ gnaws at his core, decimating him from the inside out, and he knows he deserves it but he can’t bring himself to accept it fully.

(Of course, with the path his memories seem to be taking, it’s only a matter of time before the worst of them all takes over, and won’t  _ that  _ be a fucking treat)

He scrounges up what little is left in the supermarket and stuffs it into his bag (a whopping two cans, wow, such a great haul) and ducks back out into the street. Already the sun seems to be leaving the sky, rosy fingers reaching in a last clawing attempt to stay here.

He used to like the sunset. Honestly, he did.

But something about seeing blood that  _ exact color  _ tends to sour shit for you after a while, and he’s definitely not the exception.

In fact, he’s only the exception to the extent that he’s still alive. 

(And isn’t that a fucked-up rule, but at least it’s the same color as the rest of the fucked-up shit in this fucked-up town)

The loud moans emanating from behind him force him to put his NEET ass in gear (though if he can honestly call himself a NEET at this point is up for debate) unless he wants to become a snack. That too is up for debate, because he’s honestly not sure how he feels right now.

He runs faster than he can think, which doesn’t say a lot. His mind seems to be moving in slow motion lately, bogged down with blood and death. 

The smell of rotting flesh fills his nose and he gags, eyes widening with terror. Of  _ fucking course  _ they would pop out in front of him. Fuck. 

He dives to the side, vaulting over an upturned garbage can. It’s like parkour. Really high-stakes parkour where there are things chasing you that want to kill you. 

Fun.

His eyes catch on an open window on the fourth floor - his hideaway. All it takes is a small jump to reach the ladder reaching from the fourth to second floor, and then he’s safe. 

Of course, that’s if he can make the jump in the first place. 

Still, there’s always that one-in-ten chance that he’ll slip and break his neck, and that would be  _ fucking wonderful  _ wouldn’t it. Make a whole lotta things moot.

Like Ene. 

_ “You should try harder, Master!” _

No. Stop. Not now.  _ Not fucking now. _

He sprints through the alleyway and makes a leap through the air, hand outstretched. He has to make it. Has to.

His hand catches the bottom rung and swings him through the air, nearly yanking him off the ladder, off  _ salvation _ before he manages to grab the rung with his second hand. His hands are wet with sweat and they nearly slip off before he manages to wedge his foot on the rung, clinging to the ladder like an overgrown koala. It  _ would  _ be nice to just hug the ladder forever, but the zombies  _ can  _ reach him here, and that is decidedly not fun.

He moves his hand up once, twice, and he collapses inside his hideout with a sigh of relief. 

It’s the quintessential post-apocalyptic hideout. Sheets separate the small apartment into living areas that belong to the long-since dead, and though he knows he  _ should  _ remove them, he can’t bring himself to. It’s yet another step in his elaborate web of denial. 

(It’s actually quite impressive, how many layers he puts up to pad reality, cushion his shattered psyche)

Ene lurks around every corner, her infectious smile (by and large the best sort of infection he’d seen in a long time, though it’s a low bar) haunting every dark shadow, her laughter fracturing the melancholy sort of peace he’s built. 

Because it’s the  _ memories  _ that hurt the most, the  _ memories  _ that are digging into his subconscious and tearing him apart. Claws sinking into his depth and sanity and dragging him down with all the  _ pain, death, agony _ and he  _ just can’t. _

_ “Master! You have to run!” _

Ene’s hands braced the door, her small body strained as she fought to keep them out.  _ “Please, Master-san! You have to run!” _

He was balancing on the window ledge, eyes widened in worry.  _ “But what about you?” _

_ “I’ll lead them away! Please, just go!” _

_ “Ene-” _

_ “Go!” _

The tears that streamed from her eyes were  _ so damn genuine _ that it makes him tear up just remembering it. She threw her hand to the side, the universal sweeping motion of  _ get the fuck out of here _ , and he couldn’t bring himself to argue.

He regrets it now, though. Even if it meant he had to find more supplies, he’d take it a million times if it meant he wasn’t alone. 

There’s a pounding at the door and he swears under his breath, hurriedly stuffing some essentials into his bag. He’s not a coward, but at the same time, he doesn’t fancy having to massacre a horde of zombies. 

At least, not more than once.

The pounding grows more and more intense, and he hurriedly shoves open the window, scanning his options. The horde is still there - fuck - and the banging at the door is not going away.

“Hey! Is anyone there? Hello!”

It’s a human voice.

A human voice?

But - fuck, he thought all the people in this part of the city were dead! And this person - a teenage girl, he thinks - is someone he obviously would have run into at some point or another.

“Hey! Shintaro?”

He freezes. Drops his bag and turns to the door in slow motion. 

A knife. He needs a knife.

Anyone who knows his name is  _ bad fucking news.  _ They all say they want to help, but they never really do.

“Please let me in!”

The voice is familiar. But that could be faked. Besides, she’s dead.

He crouches behind the door, knife in hand. This impostor is going down.

“Shintaro-”

He pulls open the door and angles his knife at the person’s side. It sinks in a solid few inches - not fatal, for fuck’s sake why can’t he do anything right - and a strangled gasp escapes his would-be murderer. 

“Shintaro…”

And all at once, it  _ clicks _ . Where he knows that voice. The red scarf. The school uniform.

Slowly, hesitantly, he raises his head from the blood-soaked knife to meet the person’s eyes.

Ayano’s chocolate-brown orbs stare back at him.


End file.
